


Apartment Story

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: F/M, Femdom, dubcon, it's a little iffy y'know, probably not as bad as it sounds but just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Rosemary knows what she wants, is pretty sure it'll be okay, but still hasn't shed the last of her moral ambiguity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apartment Story

**Author's Note:**

> [strums guitar] don't hate on rosemary [strums guitar] she obvs wasn't the most morally sound person when she met Jack [strums guitar] who she is here does not represent the person she becomes [rapidly strums guitar]

Jack doesn’t speak.  
Rose isn’t surprised by this. He never does around this time of night, when a day of physical activity finally takes its toll on his sleepless mind– he seems to revert to some sort of trancelike state– awake, but confused. Hazy. Quiet.

Disassociated.

She likes to kiss him. Bring her hands under his jaw; guide it firmly to her mouth. He doesn’t resist, but instead moves closer, returning her kiss almost before she even starts it.

It’s a strange consolation– one that absolves her of the guilt she assumes she should feel. So she closes her eyes, and kisses him harder, forcing her way completely into his mouth, hands in his hair, knotting it and pulling. He whines softly, content enough, but failing to return her intensity.

But he doesn’t protest. That’s what’s important, she tells herself. She tugs a little harder and his jaw drops completely, giving the chance for her to latch on to his lip completely and bite. He squeals, but he doesn’t move.

Good.

She stands up, pushing away his faintly swaying torso. He stares blankly up at her, hand at his jaw, catching the spit, barely pink with blood, dribbling down his chin.

“Rose–” he says. Softly. She forgets he’s a soldier sometimes.

“Shh.” She’s already unbuttoning her shirt– it’s not like she’s going to stop now. Jack listens, because he’s a sweet boy, eager to please, eyes round and shimmering, begging for her approval. So sweet. Too sweet.

Sweeter than she expected. (But that hurts.)

Her favourite pastime is teasing. She likes to draw things out– make him squirm and beg. Clothes go off inch by inch, kisses marking checkpoints, hands feeling, never touching. She bitterly wonders if it’s a control thing these days– a glimmer of power and wishful thinking, like she has control over this goddamn mess she’s fallen into. Like she doesn’t really love him.

But she does. And tonight, she’s desperate. Her fingers can’t move fast enough– the belt’s slipping between them, the fabric is catching on her skin. Sweet Jack tries to help, and she swats away his hands. This is all on her, and she wants to keep it that way.

Besides. A lustful woman is better with her hands than a shell-shocked man. He’d only make it worse.

Finally, success. She discards her pants and socks on the floor, shedding the shirt as she returns to the couch, sitting straddled over his lap. She tosses the hair from her eyes and smiles, gripping his shoulders tight.

“Babe,” she says softly. Singsong, she hopes. His head jerks up, eyes refocusing. A smile flickers across his face. He’s tired, a little tipsy. Very out of it. What he needs isn’t this– he needs a therapist and a fair load of medication.

Well. She doesn’t have any of these qualifications. Nor is it her job to seek them. She’s got a pulse though, and a hefty desire to quicken it. He’s too drowned out to outright consent or reject this, so she’s whittled down to simply hoping that he feels similar.

Sex is good for relaxation. This much she knows. Doesn’t take a scientist.

“Is that okay with you, Jack?” She asks him in her own honey-sweet voice, eyes half-lidded, piercing his, she hopes. She wants an answer. At this point, she’s not refusing another sin on her conscious– she has plenty– but the idea still makes her sick.

He blinks groggily.   
“…of course, Rose.” Jack’s response is half-hearted and distant as the strained look around his eyes, but it’s sincere enough for her. At least for now.

Her hands snake around the back of his head, and she pulls in for another kiss. His effort is honest, if weak in comparison. He’s receiving the kiss far more than he’s giving it, hands loose on her shoulders as she squeezes his face guiding it along her own.

She grunts into his mouth. It’s not enough. Dammit– dammit. She breaks away with a gasp of air and leans back on Jack’s thighs, setting to working off her bra. He watches, lips pursed, face red, eyes still someplace else. Probably some battlefield.

This is better than the battlefield, Rose reminds herself. This is a favor. She leans back in, grabbing Jack by the wrists, forcing his hands to the sides of her chest. Dammit, she thinks, just do what you’re supposed to. He does, albeit slowly, even hesitantly, as if he’s not once touched her before this night. Rose has to fight to mask whatever pitiful expression was trying to make its way to her face– she couldn’t have him seeing that, no matter how absent he was.

So she just pushes in, forcing the pressure where he failed to deliver. Mouth on his collarbone, she dragged her lips across it, teeth lingering up his neck, barely biting the sinews.

He’s plenty aroused by now. She should give him what he wants, but she’s feeling selfish. He likes to give anyway. It’s in his nature.

She pulls back one more time, rising to bare feet, holding his gaze as she slides off his lap. He at least seems to feel the emptiness of it– a sad bewilderment passes over his face, even as she tugs him forward, off the couch and to his knees. Rose extends a finger, tilting his chin up to look at her, standing high above him, thighs around his head.

“Please?” She asks, cupping his face. The utter bewilderment fades to dull confusion– his hands come up to her hips, sliding beneath the hem of her underwear. He holds her, gingerly, before he drags it down her legs until it can drop to the floor, soundless, seemingly satisfied in its own removal.

“Thank you.” Rose coos, and she means it. It’s like shedding a cocoon– or perhaps armor. The sweep of her hair against her bare back, the chill between her legs. It’s freeing– and strangely delightful against Jack’s submissive, clothed frame. The exposed party in control– the protected held in their captivity. How very like them.

She eases her body against his lips. Reflex, thankfully, takes over from there. He opens his mouth, fingers gripping into her hips with finally–finally– some semblance of his strength– and licks, deeply, firmly, into her cunt.

She shudders and moans. Yes. Finally. She rocks her hips, instructing him to continue. Dutifully, he does, this time harder and slower. Good. Her moan follows suit– harder, slower, and louder. Louder and Louder. She pushed her fingers into his hair, draping her whole body over his head and shoulders, sinking her cunt deeper into his mouth. She squeaks, hands slipping from hair down to his back, angry that the fabric of his shirt was all she could feel of it. Closer. She needed to be closer. It wasn’t enough.

“Jack–” she gasps, dragging her fingers up his back. Even like this, he’s good– good at this. Maybe good in general. “Jack?” She wonders what his expression is like. Are his eyes closed? Is he enjoying it, like the way his grip suggests? Like the muscle memory of each stroke confirms? Is he here?

“Jack!”

Or someplace else?

She groans, nearly screams, legs tense and shaking, pushing him as far into her as she possibly can.

She cums in his mouth. Messy, just as she is in all things. She slides down to her knees, aftershocks fading to the familiar, tired, satisfaction. She stares through the veil of loose hair at the slickness around his mouth, the way he swallows, closes his eyes, tongue absently moving across his lips. The distance in his bearing remains– but it’s changed, as if he’s no longer reliving memories, but simply lost in some orgasm of his own.

Rose smiles wryly. Foolish or not, she likes to imagine he is.

 


End file.
